


Jack Frost

by scrapbullet



Category: Sherlock Holmes (2009)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-04
Updated: 2011-01-04
Packaged: 2017-10-24 01:49:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/257542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scrapbullet/pseuds/scrapbullet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Frost has come early this year, spreading a blanket of white across London town during the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jack Frost

Jack Frost has come early this year, spreading a blanket of white across London town during the night. When Coward wakes - the clock had struck three, a soft, gentle chime resounding through the quiet - the moonlight makes the snowfall dance, silver and blue hued, throwing strange shadows across brick and wood and stone.

Seized by childish delight he builds a snowman, clad still in trousers and a nightshirt, rolling the strange substance into balls; first one and then another, places buttons on its face for eyes and sticks in its body for arms. It's not a beautiful creation, by any means. There are lumps and bumps and its coal-smile is crooked, but it is Coward's and as his breath fogs in front of his face he feels his skin tingle in a way that draws his insides up tight like a string. Makes him hot, makes it pool deep in his gut and he stares, wonders, looks at his snowman and the streets of London and tastes the sharp twist of arousal in the back of his throat.

His cock fills with blood, skin flushing.

Should he feel shame? Disgust? Or is he past those ridiculous obstacles- unbuttoning his trousers and pulling out his stiff cock, palming it and hissing through his teeth as the chill makes it twitch, reaching for the sky. For a moment Coward doubts, but it doesn't linger for long.

Dragging the head across the snow he shudders, stifles a moan. His cock practically drools and his flesh is like a furnace, burning bright until the trail he leaves across the belly of his creation is not only sticky with pre-cum but melting snow until it pools on his trousers, seeping right through worn fabric, his thighs aching from the cold. The excitement builds.

It builds, step by step and stone by stone and shame is banished to the wind as Coward sinks forward, rubs himself against the torso of compact snow, nipples peaked and aching as they rub against his shirt. Moaning unabashedly he makes quick work of his arousal, thrusting, grinding, unable to slow his movements to savour its bittersweet taste and with a soft, stilted cry he climaxes, his release painting the childish creation with hot seed.

Coward sinks to his knees, struggles to draw breath and closes his eyes.

For a moment he rests his forehead against it, trembles, and remembers.


End file.
